


Sex and Death

by Moraearty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, It's basically going to be a pornfest after chapter 1, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sheriarty - Freeform, all the sex, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moraearty/pseuds/Moraearty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock screamed all through the first time Jim fucked him.  </p><p>After that there was an unspoken understanding between them. Sherlock gave Jim what Jim didn’t have and in return Jim took from Sherlock what Sherlock needed taking. And for a few heavenly moments a day they got what they were both denied at birth. For a few stolen seconds Jim felt everything and Sherlock felt nothing and it was pure bliss.  </p><p>Jim was determined to make those few seconds last a lifetime even if he had to burn down England in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Siamese Twins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngeRabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeRabbit/gifts).



> A little bunny told me that if I didn't finish my other fic she'd destroy everything I know and love. 
> 
> I don't negotiate with terrorist rabbits. 
> 
> I do however write porn when I'm feeling down, so have some of this.

Jim would never grow tired of listening to Sherlock. 

He liked to hear Sherlock ramble on about his experiments. He liked to hear Sherlock whisper under his breath when he talked to himself. He liked to hear Sherlock rattle off his deductions at a speed you only just manage to catch. He absolutely loved to hear Sherlock moan and whimper as he was taken apart.

He loved to feel the drumbeat of Sherlock’s racing pulse as he traced his veins with lips and teeth. He loved the slap of sweat-dampened skin as their bodies crashed together like cymbals. He loved the breathy sighs he earned from blowing on Sherlock’s abused nipples. The screams, the gasps, the bitten off words, the whines, to Jim it was the sweetest music. Sherlock was a symphony of sin only meant for Jim’s ears, ever changing, but always beautiful and always his. There were moments when the urge to conduct his one-man orchestra would become unbearable. In the dreary hours of a London morning, when the smog sat atop the city like a great dragon, he craved the cadence of his lover’s debauchery.  
In those moments he was a musician without an instrument.  
He was a junkie dying for another hit and his drug of choice was the deep resonance of intimacy that only his mirror image could give him.  
That’s what Sherlock was, is, and will always be. He will always be light where Jim is dark. Sherlock will always be the eclipsed sun and Jim will always be the smiling moon. While Sherlock’s façade is cold and emotionless, the sound of a beating heart behind the door of false apathy will always give him away. And no matter the mask Jim wears, they will never quite conceal the hungry emptiness within his eyes. But like this they are free. With Sherlock moaning out praise between panted declarations of love and devotion, writhing with each thrust of Jim’s hips; Jim with jaw clenched tight, breath coming fast and quiet as he plunges into the depths of his reflection over and over, like this, with the moonlight illuminating Sherlock’s slender frame and the darkness swallowing Jim’s, they are themselves.  
They are Eros and Thanatos. They are the shameless and the ashamed, pleasure and pain, light and dark, they are the personification of silence and sound, and together they are one. Jim knew this with every fiber of his being, he knew this with every beat of his hideous heart, and he knew that Sherlock was beginning to know it too. 

Sherlock didn’t know that they had been destined to be together since Jim had first laid his 9 year old eyes on the willowy slip of a boy with the mop of inky curls.

Jim had watched him as he had shouted at the incompetent DI about the death of the not-so-little Carl Powers and even then he knew he had found his other half. He knew as he watched Sherlock grow through the lens of a camera, through the eyes of informants, and through the puzzles he solved that Sherlock was only meant for him. He knew and he waited for so very long for Sherlock to catch on. 

It was at the pool that Jim finally revealed himself, and it was there that he hinted at his intentions, but it wasn’t yet time because although Sherlock was looking at Jim, he couldn’t see past John. John, who had more clout than Jim had initially realized because he had been too caught up in the Game to notice that his most brilliant sun had gained an earth.

John was the third bowl of porridge, he wasn’t hot like Sherlock, nor was he cold like Jim, no, John was juuuust right. John was boring and interesting, weak and strong, kind and vicious, he was a walking mass of contradictions and he was as drawn to Sherlock as he was put off by him. 

Jim loathed him entirely. 

But Jim let Sherlock and John be. Because although John was what Sherlock wanted, he was not, in fact, what Sherlock needed. And although Jim hated that John was getting the parts of Sherlock that had been reserved long ago for Jim, he enjoyed a hard won victory and that’s what he was going to get. So he let them stew in their own frustrations.

He watched as Sherlock, time and time again, tried to give John what he had never given to anyone else and he watched as John, time and time again, remained painfully oblivious. In a way Jim was thankful for John’s ability to be spectacularly ignorant. Were it not for that key element of the common man Jim might have lost Sherlock. 

The second time Jim approached Sherlock he made sure there was no John there to stop him. He sat in 221B and he took what Sherlock gave him. He took the tea that John never drank. He took one of the apology apples John hadn’t noticed that Sherlock had bought specifically for him after getting yelled at for blowing up the last ones. He took the chair Sherlock secretly hated and made Sherlock sit in the chair he secretly loved. The chair that John had stolen without thought. He took, he listened, he played along, and he waited. He waited for the realization of who he was to come forth, but despite Sherlock’s ability to observe he just couldn’t see. So he took Sherlock’s blindness from him bit by bit with gentle lips and warm tongue. And bit by bit Sherlock finally saw him. Sherlock saw the devouring emptiness, but he didn’t understand it at first, not fully, but being rather clever, it didn’t take him long to figure it out. 

Sherlock screamed all through the first time Jim fucked him. 

After that there was an unspoken understanding between them. Sherlock gave Jim what Jim didn’t have and in return Jim took from Sherlock what Sherlock needed taking. And for a few heavenly moments a day they got what they were both denied at birth. For a few stolen seconds Jim felt everything and Sherlock felt nothing and it was pure bliss. 

Jim was determined to make those few seconds last a lifetime even if he had to burn down England in the process.


	2. Fire in Cairo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me kudos or give me death! 
> 
> I'm only kidding, jesus, keep your kudos. 
> 
> PUT DOWN THE KNIFE!

There were always things in life that Sherlock could not predict. Those were the things that he cherished more than he let on. He loved a capricious murderer, a hidden motive, an unsolvable mystery. 

Jim Moriarty was infinitely better than all of those things. 

It was either a very late night or a very early morning in Cairo when Sherlock awoke to a hand round his throat. 

Sherlock knew that the normal reaction to waking up to a firm hold on one’s trachea would be to panic, to struggle, to try to get it off. So, of course, his bodily response was to relax into it and let the pressure increase.

If someone had told him that he would someday love being strangled into consciousness he would have dismissed them as an idiot immediately. But now, gasping and hard, dizzy with the lack of oxygen, there is no denying that he does not revel in this act of hedonism. 

He wishes he could wake up like this every time. 

Sherlock’s lungs are on fire, his vision has long since become a blur, and he knows in exactly 2.32 seconds he will pass out. It’s when he’s only a second away, just on the brink of oblivion, does the hand let go of his neck and grasp his cock instead. 

Jim’s timing is always impeccable.

He’s barely able to catch his breath when a mouth slides over his own. The kiss is strange, and it takes Sherlock’s oxygen deprived mind a moment to understand what’s happening. Jim is pushing air into his lungs. Jim is breathing for him and if that isn’t one of the most erotic goddamned things Sherlock has ever had done to him he doesn’t know what is. 

Jim proved very early on to be an exquisite kisser. So much so that Sherlock wasn’t entirely convinced that Jim didn’t have some bizarre form of telepathy that was only activated when he kissed. There was no other explanation as to how he knew exactly what Sherlock wanted when he wanted it. Sherlock couldn’t do that and he was a magnificent kisser! So even though Sherlock woke up to being asphyxiated, even though the hand working a steady, brutal rhythm up and down his cock was beginning to make him chafe from the complete lack of lubrication (which to be honest was really doing it for him at the moment), the lips on his were gentle and tender and exactly what Sherlock had been craving. 

As Jim’s mouth begins a teasing assault on his throat, sucking and biting in equal measure, Sherlock’s last vestiges of lucidity exit his mind and leave the building. 

He can’t help but whimper as Jim’s mouth begins a relentless descent southward, leaving a trail of reddened skin and goose bumps in its wake. 

For a few seconds Sherlock can breathe normally. They don’t last long. The moment Jim’s lips close around his nipple and give a good quick suck he’s lost again in a breathless haze. 

Sherlock always stores these moments in one of the many rooms in Jim’s private wing of the MindPalace.  
He will spend hours analyzing them tomorrow on the plane, in the cab, and on his couch. If anyone will take notice of his erection they won’t say anything.  
Especially John. 

“I’ve missed you.” 

Sherlock knows it’s a stupid thing to say, but he says it anyway. He says it because this is the 13th time they have done this and his initial inhibitions have long since faded. He says it because Jim never makes a sound while they have sex, even if Sherlock is screaming himself hoarse. Jim never speaks, never groans, never whimpers, but he always responds. And unlike so many before him, he is never judgmental and he never tells Sherlock to shut up. 

A tongue laps lovingly at his now crimson nipple and begins giving the other the same treatment as two spit-slicked fingers nudge their way into him. It is the best reply Sherlock could have hoped for. 

“I think about you so often these days,” he has to pause to whimper because the fingers have found their target and are tracing it with a gentle efficiency. The hand around his cock doesn’t know the meaning of gentle.

“John’s going crazy trying to figure out our secre-OH!”

A third finger is added roughly, the pace quickens, the stretch almost becomes unbearable, and Sherlock’s hands can’t seem to decide if they want to push Jim off or pull him closer. 

They settle for both. One hand fists Jim’s hair, the other pushes at his shoulder. 

Sherlock knows he’s playing with fire, but he can’t seem to help himself.

“O-oh are you jealous, lovey,” Sherlock stutters. “doesn’t it just burn you up to think of-ah, of all the ways John could have me?” Sherlock’s lying, they both know this, but god damn if he’s not going to take advantage of a stroppy, jealous, aroused Jim when he’s doing something so wonderful with his fingers. 

“Against the wall.” 

The fingers quicken.

“Over the table.”

The vein in Jim’s forehead becomes increasingly pronounced.

“On the couch.”

The fingers withdraw quickly and before Sherlock knows it he’s being rolled onto his stomach and Jim’s tongue is burying itself obscenely deep in his ass. The couch was the first place Jim took Sherlock. Sherlock knows he went too far. He knows and he regrets absolutely nothing. 

Jim’s tongue laps and plunders at a pace that no tongue should be able to maintain. 

He feels like every nerve ending has been set on fire and Jim is the one holding the matches.  
It might have been overwhelming if it wasn’t so fucking perfect. 

“J-Jim, I’m gonna come.” 

The tongue withdraws as quickly as the fingers had and is just as quickly replaced with the blunt, weeping head of Jim’s cock. 

Sherlock would never consider himself a religious man, but like this, being slowly consumed from the inside out by Jim, he’ll pray at the alter of St. James in a heartbeat. 

The fevered, desperate pace of before has been replaced by a languid rolling of hips. Sherlock still clutches the sheets like a lifeline.

Stretched out across the bed, because Sherlock couldn’t hold himself up on hand and knee if he tried, Jim’s body unfurls over Sherlock’s. Placing his hands over the clenched fists of his now entirely incoherent lover, Jim thrusts into Sherlock lazily, but with no less passion. 

There are no words that could ever properly express how Sherlock feels in these moments. Except, maybe, quiet. He feels quiet. He feels quiet even as blood pounds in his ears, as he moans and grunts, as he cries out when Jim’s strokes become impossibly deeper. Even though there’s so much noise, most of which he himself is the cause of, Sherlock’s mind finally feels quiet. 

He comes with Jim’s name on his lips. 

Jim comes with blood in his mouth. 

 

When Sherlock rouses hours later he is completely alone and not entirely sure Jim was ever there. 

The room is exactly as it was. 

The sheets are unsoiled, his skin is clean, nothing is noticeably out of place. 

It isn’t until he sits up and rolls his shoulders that an ache makes itself known. 

Sherlock traces the twin bite marks on his shoulder unconsciously for weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sprained my tongue today. I wish I could say it was because a long suppressed fuck fantasy was finally realized, but in all honesty I was eating peanut butter from the jar with my fingers because FUCK YOUR COMMUNAL PEANUT BUTTER RULES! *pops collar and drinks juice straight from the jug* I’m batman, bitches. 
> 
> I’m sorry. You’re not bitches. Please don’t leave!


	3. The Baby Screams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's Mycroft's favorite band?
> 
> Cake.
> 
> HOOHAHAHAHAHAHAAHEEEEEHOOAOAAAAAAAAAA! 
> 
> No, but seriously, go listen to Cake's You Turn the Screws and just try and tell me Mycroft wouldn't listen to it while working out.

The first time they were caught out Sherlock would later realize that it had been no accident.

 

"You can’t beat me, you know. You can try all you like, Sherlock, but you’re not going to win.”

“Don’t be so sure, you may have flexibility on your side, but my stamina far exceeds yours.”

“Sherlock, my patience is wearing thin, either spin the arrow or I‘m going to motorboat your arse.”

“……….”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m weighing my options!”

With Jim bowed in a position reminiscent of the girl from The Exorcist and with Sherlock crouched over him, one arm planted firmly between Jim’s legs, an elbow that kept “accidentally” brushing over the now quite prominent bulge trapped between said legs, and a, if he did say so himself, quite luscious bottom wiggling in Jim’s face, it was clear who was going to be the victor of this round of kink-twister. 

“Maybe I’ll just bite your dick.”

“You’re no fun.”

“And your arms are shaking. Calisthenics, dear, are your friends.”

Still, you did have to win to be dubbed the winner. And so three mighty flicks of a flimsy, little arrow and a great, tumbling fall later Sherlock Holmes lost the game. 

Under normal circumstances Sherlock losing anything, especially a game against Jim, would have been a crushing blow. 

“There’s a pair of nylons and stilettos in my bag, darling, be a dear and put them on.”

“I won’t wear pantyhose.” 

“No, you won’t. You will, however, wear stockings.”

“…”

“Don’t forget the garter.”

Normal circumstances were boring. _Oh, Fuck._

The thing about Jim that continued to amaze Sherlock was his ability to make himself bigger in every facet of life whilst simultaneously maintaining the illusion of being little more than a shadow. He seemed to have learned the ability to do what evolution had strived for millennia to instill in others. 

So even though by average standards Jim is slight and his muscles are on the lower side of sinewy he could easily carry a 6’ 2” consulting detective over his shoulder, pin him to a wall, lift him at mouth level, and suck him off to the point of shouting the house down. 

“Ohgodpleasedon’tstopI’msocloseJIIIIIIMwhyareyoustopping?!?!”

In lieu of a response Jim licked away the fresh, salty bead of precome from Sherlock’s dripping crown one last time and slowly lowered him to the ground with shaking arms. Deceptive strength or no, there was a limit to how long a pair of knee-high stiletto heels could dig into your shoulder blades before your arms start to give out. 

Leaning against the wall as he caught his breath on 7 inch heels that were one wobble away from breaking his ankle, Sherlock began shakily yanking at the finely tailored jacket on Jim’s **still** clothed form. 

“One of these days I’m going to make you scream as loud as me, you bastard, until then get these damn things off so you can fuck me!”

Jim always took a private delight in making Sherlock desperate. His words would become rough and filthy and words like that said in a voice as smooth as vintage scotch had an effect that hadn’t been replicated with his previous partners. Sherlock’s usually ever so calculated grace would fall away and become disjointed and jerky and so very sincere. Jim loved the little moments of complete inhibition. He loved pleasuring Sherlock really, but Sherlock couldn’t find out that his only real kink was the man himself. Thankfully Sherlock was a mass of untapped kinks that not even he knew about until Jim pulled them out with delicate kisses and brutal rhythms. But today, while hands were clawing at his tie and dirty little nothings were coming out of such plush lips, his eyes gave him away and Sherlock, being Sherlock, noticed.

Frantic fingers gradually slowed and began undoing the knot in Jim’s tie with deliberation, Sherlock continued. 

“You do want to fuck me, don’t you?”

It really wasn’t a question.

“I know I want you to. If only you could feel yourself. If you could maybe you’d understand why I finger myself to the thought of you for hours.” 

The tie hit the floor. 

 

~~~~

 

“I don’t understand it, Greg, why would anyone call in a bomb threat when there isn‘t a bomb? Why at an ordinary little clinic? Why at _**my**_ ordinary little clinic?” John sighed, exasperated at being sent home early after what felt like a full day of giving police statements. He climbed out of the passenger seat of Greg’s vehicle and made his way to the door of 221. 

“It’s probably just kids taking the piss,” Greg said as he rounded the side of the vehicle and joined John. “But I think we should have Sherlock take a look just to be sure if-” 

Whatever Greg was going to say was cut off by Mrs. Hudson suddenly opening the door, hand over her mouth in worry.

“Oh boys, I’m so glad you’re here! I just got back from my sister’s and there’s banging and screaming and and,” 

They were both dashing through the open door before she could finish her sentence. 

Banging and screaming were just a few of the noises being made. There was also the sounds of crashing, breaking, shattering, and over all of this were the sounds of Sherlock’s screaming and yelling and swearing. 

The swearing was what really caught them both off guard. Sherlock was by no means a saint, but even when he was in immense pain the strongest thing that had ever come out of his mouth was a mighty yell of “CRUMPETS”. 

The worst was assumed. With a word of caution from Lestrade and a response of steely determination from John they began a swift but quiet assent of the stairs, Lestrade’s pistol leading the way as the screaming became more discernible. 

“DON’T! OH FUCK!” 

They picked up the pace and followed the noise to the hall. It was coming from John’s room. 

“STOP! SHITSHITSHIT! AAAAAAAAAH!” 

With a fast, well aimed kick Lestrade sent the door slamming into the adjacent wall. Later he would wish he hadn’t. 

“DON’T STOP! OhgodohgodohgodohGREG?!”

Both Lestrade and John stood looking into the hazy, smoke-filled room in complete wide-eyed, slack-jawed astonishment. 

Sherlock was there, but he wasn’t in danger, unless having a roaring orgasm via intense wall sex while your mates stood watching in shock constituted as danger. 

The place looked like it had hit by a fucking sex tornado. Clothes, books, furniture, lube, and condoms were scattered anywhere and everywhere. As for the source of their worries, Mr. Married To My Work was pinned to the wall, arms in the air with fingers maintaining a white knuckled grip on the sides of the rafter he was handcuffed to, legs wrapped around a man Lestrade would later refer to at the pub after several awkward pints with John as ‘orgasmatron’, and making the most undignified and unbearably arousing unsherlockian squeaks. In short, Sherlock was a visual feast of carnal pleasure and despite the overwhelming sounds, sights, and smells of sex that were overloading his senses, all John could think was that surely, there were other rooms with rafters in the house that could support Sherlock’s weight. 

The man, oh yes definitely a man if the swaying bollocks were anything to go by, that was holding up Sherlock (by the arse! John’s dazed mind supplied helpfully) was tiny. Like shorter than John. John couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could see his back and the sight of it made John wince because the sheer volume of busted capillaries and broken skin could not be quantified. The scratch marks that started just above the cleft of his buttocks and disappeared over his shoulders only reinforced John’s opinion that Sherlock was secretly a cat. 

And as if that sight wasn’t shocking enough, the backside of the unknown figure clenching and unclenching with each thrust of hips as he absolutely pounded into Sherlock certainly wasn‘t helping, nor did it seem to be stopping. If anything the man had started moving faster in blatant disregard of the men watching this whole display. 

And watch they did. 

John’s brain continued to short circuit as he found himself unable to look away from the hypnotic slamming of hips against stockinged thighs for what felt like forever. 

Lestrade was much too busy still trying to recover from hearing Sherlock scream his name like that to take in much of anything else. 

And Sherlock, the whimpering, sweaty mess that he was, watched them watch Jim fuck him, thankful of the fact that they were completely unaware of who’s ass their eyes were locked on. 

He glanced to Jim’s face and found him smiling fiendishly around the half smoked cigarette he had lit just to tease Sherlock with. They continued to hold each other’s gaze as the angle changed. Jim pressed himself into Sherlock as far as he could go as a means to keep him up while he let go of one abused cheek to take the cigarette out of his mouth and flick it onto John’s favorite (and ugliest) jumper. 

With hips still boring into Sherlock and an audience of his lovely‘s nearest and dearest, Jim leaned forward until his lips were close enough to brush the fine hairs on Sherlock’s ear and in one smokey exhalation whispered the first word ever uttered during any sexual encounter of theirs. 

“Come.”

Sherlock’s second orgasm barreled over him without so much a how do you do as Jim‘s teeth traced the shell of his ear. He came again with a deep roar of “GET THE FUCK OUT!” and relied on his ears to confirm if his candor reached the sex-addled brains of his friends, far too busy capturing Jim’s lips to look for himself. 

The sound of the front door slamming was loud enough to be heard by Mrs. Turner’s “married ones”.  
~~~~

 

The moment they were out on the pavement with Mrs. Hudson giving them the not-your-housekeepr inquisition and John struggling to answer her questions did Lestrade begin giggling. 

“The poncy git finally remembered my name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any typos. This is one of the two stories I won't allow my beta, the lovely AngeRabbit, to read beforehand because of reasons. So basically, you know, blame her.

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome criticism but reserve the right to criticize you for it.


End file.
